


what is right/what is easy

by The_Lionheart



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-17
Updated: 2012-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-29 16:50:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/322036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Lionheart/pseuds/The_Lionheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson has a secret.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. through the trapdoor

When John Watson is a boy and answers to a different name, he nearly dies. Later, he remembers every bizarre detail- the rain and sleet, the icy path, the overwhelming feeling of despair when he realizes that he is going to _die_ , he is going to die a cruel, fat, friendless _virgin_ , and he is fifteen and no one has ever kissed him, no one has ever _wanted_ to because he is a nasty, bullying coward with no redeeming qualities. He is going to die _alone_.

Of course, he isn't alone- Harry is there with him, and Harry saves his life. It isn't quite a turning point in their relationship, but it gets John to thinking.

~ ~ ~

John sometimes thinks that Sherlock is so used to seeing other people as beneath him that when he butts heads with someone he considers his intellectual _equal_ \- so, Mycroft or Moriarty, basically- he panicks just a little bit, has to reassure himself that he's clever by casually exposing some tidbit of information _lesser_ mortals wouldn't pick up on. It is after a particularly nasty exchange with Mycroft that Sherlock throws himself onto the sofa next to John and glares darkly at the ceiling before speaking.

“You could offer him dietary _tips_ ,” he mutters, and John puts down his book with a suppressed little sigh.

“Pardon?” he asks, and Sherlock glances his way.

“To get him to lose weight, maybe some advice about exercise, you could even write about it on your blog. You used to be more of a fatty than-”

John gets up, tucking his book under his arm.

“Right, I'm going to bed,” he says firmly, and if he feels Sherlock's gaze on his back he pretends not to know.

~ ~ ~

During the first few weeks after moving into 221B, John considers, for a few days, the idea that Sherlock and Mycroft are _like Harry_.

Then he remembers Sherlock's reaction to the engraving on his mobile, and a part of John is intensely relieved.

At least, until he remembers that he still doesn't _know_ about Mycroft, and then goes down a tangent where he imagines that Harry and Mycroft know each other quite well. It's good for a chuckle or two, and then one day Mycroft says or does something and John thinks immediately of Harry, of the way Harry used to set his teeth on edge.

~ ~ ~

The problem is that John _lies_ , that first day and night in Sherlock's company. The man had been exactly right about Afganistan, about the therapist and the limp, and when he gets to the bit about Harry John panicks. He is simply too used to lying about Harry to people- lying about Harry's whereabouts, pretending that Harry doesn't exist-- and he is terrified of what Sherlock would uncover if he ever digs too deep.

When John finally gets in touch with Harry after that, he tells him everything, and Harry, of course, finds it utterly hilarious.

“So he thinks I'm your... sister,” he snorts, and it is strange to think that John really doesn't know much about Harry's laugh or his smile, you'd think that John would have seen it more than a handful of times in their childhood together. “Surely he'll find out one of these days that your sister is, in fact, your male cousin?”

“I don't see why he _would_ , we're just flatmates,” John snaps, and Harry just gives him a weird little smile and a shrug, before asking how John's parents are doing.

“Haven't been to see them,” he says, and inquires, instead, after Harry's children.

~ ~ ~

It happens _anyway_ , in the end, when Sherlock stays up all night playing his violin, making music to commit murder to. It's no use trying to sleep through it, and when John finally decides to leave his room to see if there's something, _anything_ , he can do to make it stop it's well past three. When he enters the room Sherlock faces him with an actual _grimace_ , and John doesn't know if Sherlock's features are so sharp as to utterly exaggerate the expression or if Sherlock's making it on purpose to look like a child's drawing, as if he learned to express his feelings from a children's book.

“So it's me you're angry at,” John says quietly, and has a seat, choking back sleep-deprived resentment. “Let's hear it, then, what's the lowly John Watson done to anger you?”

“Your name's not even _John_ ,” Sherlock hisses in that lovely voice, moving suddenly to cross the room, to get further from John. Times like this he reminds John of one of Harry's dragons, and even when he's angry at Sherlock he can't help feeling fond of him in these moments. John wants to tell Sherlock this, wants to tell him every stupid little observation he's kept to himself over the last year, wants to tell him all the wonderful ways Sherlock reminds him of the existence of adventure and bravery and danger and magic.

“It's John on my degree, it's John on my discharge papers... it's John to my friends,” he says instead, folding his hands. “It's John in every way that matters.”

“Your parents-”

“I don't speak to them,” John interrupts, and Sherlock knows him well enough, knows that his tone means _don't_ and _don't ask me why_. He hesitates, and John knows that Sherlock can read it on him, abuse and guilt and regret as easy to see as the cut of his hair and the jumper over his shirt.

“You didn't tell me,” he says finally, and John tilts his head.

“You didn't need me to tell you for you to figure it out,” but Sherlock is back, leaning close to John now, and there's something in his eyes that reminds John of the night he almost died as a kid, of blackness and ice and _Please God, let me live_ and the finality of knowing it was the end.

“I needed you to _tell_ me,” Sherlock says, and John thinks it's the closest Sherlock's ever been to begging anyone for anything in his entire life.

“I'm sorry,” John says, and he means it. There is a moment where John thinks he is going to tell Sherlock everything- not just about his feelings, which are complicated and confusing at the best of times, but everything, about Harry, about his parents, everything dark and worthless about himself that he is terrified of Sherlock seeing in him.

The moment is broken when Lestrade bangs on the door, as haggard-looking as John feels, the details of a hopeless case in hand.

 


	2. the worst birthday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not really the "WORST" birthday John's ever had omg no. I am merely using chapter titles from the books because I am not really very clever at all!

It is John's birthday. He knows he looks older than he really is, _much_ older- drastic weight loss and years in the sun have aged his skin, stress has begun to sap the color from his hair. He is not celebrating, he hasn't told Sherlock, he expects nothing but a quiet night in the flat with his friend. Sherlock is probably not in a good humor, since he wrapped up a case last week and hasn't had so much as a sniff of anything interesting in days.

John doesn't think he'll mind, even if Sherlock is _maddening_ when he gets like this. A quiet, unacknowledged birthday with a friend is bound to be infinitely more rewarding than any of the birthdays of his childhood. He doesn't want to feel as though someone's been made to do anything special for him, which is why he asks Sherlock what he wants to eat and why he offers to get some Chinese take-away when Sherlock mutters something about stir-fry. To his surprise (and, actually, _delight_ ) Sherlock announces that they will go together and eat it _properly_ at the restaurant.

John isn't stupid. He knows that Sherlock knows what today is, and it does something funny to his heart to think that Sherlock knows the importance of spending this evening together. He doesn't know what it means, but he does know that dwelling on its meaning will attract Sherlock's attention. John doesn't want to find out from Sherlock what it is his own mind does.

Dinner is pleasant, and they both reminisce, and it is nice, it is _wonderful_ , even if John wishes, for no reason he is aware of, that Mrs. Hudson could have come along. They head home before it gets too late, because they are not _celebrating_ , and it's people _celebrating_ who stay out late.

John is already at the top of the stairs when he realizes that something is... wrong. Off. Different.

He opens the door to the flat and Harry is standing in the living room, wearing jeans and trainers and a handknit jumper. John is startled into a smile, even as the smile on Harry's face fades slightly at the sight of Sherlock, lurking darkly behind John.

“This is a surprise. It's lovely, though, a lovely surprise,” John steps forward, hesitates, because Harry looks like he isn't sure if a hug would be welcome- it's never been a terribly comfortable move for them- and John takes his hand. “How did you-” and he nods towards the fireplace.

“There are some advantages to being me,” Harry grins, and turns to offer his hand to Sherlock. “We haven't been introduced, I'm-”

“John's... cousin. Harry. Yes, I know,” Sherlock says, taking his hand only briefly. Harry blinks owlishly behind his round glasses.

“How did you-”

“Know who you are despite John having no photographs or, frankly, bearing shockingly little resemblance to one another?” To a stranger, Sherlock might sound bored. John knows it's a lie, speculates that someone ( _Mycroft_?) didn't tell Sherlock he was clever as a child, thinks Sherlock will always try to prove it to that person. “Wedding ring, long red hair sticking out of the collar of your jumper- she kissed you before you put it on- happily married. The wear patterns on the knees of your jeans indicate that you spend quite a lot of time moving about on your knees, playing with a small child or children, so- a father, the scuffs on your trainers would indicate that at least one of your children is old enough to really run. Knowing what John's told me about you- happily married to a ginger, two sons and a young daughter- it was _obvious_ who you were.”

“That was _brilliant_ ,” Harry says, awed, and Sherlock gives John a sidelong little glance.

“Runs in the family, does it?”

“A bit,” John admits, struck dumb, for a second or two, by a momentary similarity between Sherlock and Harry. It goes just as quickly as it comes, and John is immensely grateful. “Not that I'm complaining, but what _are_ you doing here, Harry?”

“I happened to be in the area- business,” Harry shrugs, his smile a little forced, “and, it being your birthday, I thought I'd drop in to say hello.”

“Oh,” and John is strangely touched. “Well... thanks. You're looking well.”

“Yeah, you too. You're not using your cane anymore,” Harry notes, his smile more genuine. “Leg not giving you any trouble, then?”

“Ah... yeah, no,” John meets Sherlock's eyes for a moment, gesturing at him a bit. “You can thank this one for that.”

“Really? Brilliant!” Harry pulls a little fob watch out of his pocket, battered and well-loved, before giving John an apologetic smile. “Look, I'd better be off-”

“Yes, it is a bit awkward with you here,” Sherlock interrupts. ( _“Sherlock!”_ John actually snaps, but Harry grins and waves it off, and it shames John to think that he is part of the reason Harry's so used to letting insulting little comments roll so easily off his back.) “But do give the wife and kids our love, it was lovely meeting you at last.”

“Lovely meeting you too,” Harry says, bemused, before turning to John, who shrugs and shakes his head. They shake hands, once more, before Harry turns back to the fireplace.

~ ~ ~

John debates not telling Sherlock what kind of impression he's made on Harry, but he thinks Sherlock knows. The next time John sees Harry, he can't stop going on about fantastic Sherlock is, how _cool_ he is, and always with the curious little smile Harry _always_ gets when he knows something John doesn't.

Sherlock, irritatingly enough, does the same thing.

~ ~ ~

Things are going badly with Sarah. It's because of Sherlock- because Sherlock needs or wants him at this crime scene or that one, because Sherlock keeps him up at all hours of the night fighting dangerous criminals or with his music or with his experiments, because Sherlock just won't _accept_ Sarah, just doesn't _approve_ of her, for whatever reason. He finds her _boring_ , he finds her _dull_ , he dismisses her from his mind before she's left his field of vision.

Sherlock always points out some annoying trait of habit of hers if John tries to assert himself, if John tries to ensure that he is where Sarah wants him of an evening. John resents the manipulation and is annoyed by its childishness, but whenever he sees Sarah next he can't help but notice whatever it is Sherlock has drawn his attention to, and it grates on his nerves.

It comes to a point where John can't even pretend to _himself_ that he wants to be with Sarah, that it's still fun. He breaks it off with her and she doesn't act hurt or even marginally surprised.

~ ~ ~

Sherlock is in a quiet sort of mood when John gets home, and he lets John sit on the couch with him and says nothing during John's marathon of Die Hard movies.


End file.
